


don't ask me (what your sacrifice was for)

by guardianoffun



Series: Shameless [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Descriptions of Corpses, Dream Sequence, Hurt No Comfort, Morse in prison, Nightmare Fuel, Post-Neverland, Unsettling Imagery, perceived character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 17:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19728778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: The walls of his cell close in on Morse little by little with every passing day. His life before, the outside world, it's all slipping away. Cut off from everything he held dear, he can't help but think the worst.





	don't ask me (what your sacrifice was for)

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO ITS ME AGAIN RAINING TERROR ON OUR SWEET MORSE! A precursor to something imaginationtherapy may be cooking up... Morse is Not Having a good time in prison...
> 
> Set a few weeks post Neverland 
> 
> title from les mis cos thems are some BOPS
> 
> WARNINGS for some dark imagery, descriptions of corpses, weird dreams and mentions of injuries

The post is supposed to come, once a week. Each prisoner’s letters bundled up, laid out and handed through doors, dropped into waiting hands like some piss-poor mockery of life on the outside. For some, it’s the best part of the week. Wives, children, friends, lovers, all sorts. Even a letter from your landlord telling you he’s thrown out all your belongings; if nothing else it’s a bit of excitement in an otherwise mind numbing routine. 

Not that Morse needs more excitement. The thrill of having his head kicked in whilst he gets changed after a shower, that’s quite enough he supposes. 

It’s been two weeks, and it’s the second week Morse hasn’t had a single letter. Not that he had been expecting much, but he would have thought, well he hoped, that Joyce would have written him. Even if it _had_ been just to disown him. Anything, right now, would be nice. Something to connect him to the real world, because in here felt like he was walking through a constant haze. He had nothing to ground him. There were no records in here, and if there were he could bet they wouldn’t have been the sort he listened to anyway. He tried humming arias under his breath, but the walls swallowed up the sound, made everything flat and tuneless. 

They could spend time outside, sure, but it was never all that long, and the walls that stretched their way around the prison just taunted him. They weren’t even let out when it rained. Morse wouldn’t have minded, standing in the rain. Feeling something that someone out there might feel too, knowing that maybe Strange was caught in the same downpour, or he could imagine Jakes hoisting his jacket over his head to avoid the pomade in his hair running. 

But no, there was none of that. There was nothing at all to keep him tethered to his old life. The tenuous strings holding him here were starting to fray. He was sure there had to be letters, something for him waiting. He had library books still out, if nothing else there would be a letter reminding him of his ever-growing fines.

Morse walked slowly through the halls, watching silently as other inmates tore into letters. As he made his way across the common room floor, he let a hand trace along the brickwork in the hopes it might snap him from the daze he was in. Maybe the feeling of coarse stone or peeling paint would _feel_ like something. Absently, he tucked his hands in his pockets, running a thumb along his knuckles. The skin there was cracked, a combination of harsh chemical soap and a halfhearted attempt to protect himself when he last got himself thrown into a wall. It stung a little with every brush of fabric against it and he supposed that was something. He felt something. It just wasn’t enough. 

Stopping at the door, or rather, the bars and locks that made up for doors in this place, he watched the officer on duty fiddle with his watch. 

“Excuse me.”

Then he watched him inspect his handcuffs. 

“Excuse me.”

Then watched as he walked the length of the hallway and back again. 

“What?” The officer snapped, turning to him with a look of contempt on his face. Morse bit his tongue. He knew it did him no good to attempt to reason with any of the officers here. As far as any of them were concerned he was a cop-killer, who also happened to be a copper himself. He ranked just about as low as a man could in here. 

“I didn’t get my post this morning.” The officer, whose name tag identified him as _T. Mallory,_ rolled his eyes and scoffed. 

“You expecting something?” 

Morse shrugged. Mallory’s lip curled wickedly. 

“Funeral invite perhaps?” 

Instinctively, Morse jerked forward. Despite his usually passive attitude, the words made something fiery wrap around his heart, and it ran straight to his fist. If only the smarmy bastard was a step closer, he might be able to knock a few teeth out. Then Mallory barked out a harsh laugh, spun on his heel and walked off. 

The blazing anger in Morse’s chest sputtered, the spark fizzling out. It left burning embers in his lungs, making it hard to breath. He was sure he had only said it to get a rise out of him - and it had worked - but the fact he’d said it at all asked a hundred more questions. Did that mean he knew? Did that make it a lie, or was he telling the truth about Thursday? 

With his feet already tracing the familiar path back to his cell, Morse’s mind was left to bat these ideas back and forth. Any more thoughts about chasing up his nonexistent letters gone, replaced with the sound of Mallory’s voice, those three little words. He played them over, trying to gauge tone, intent, delivery. Had he said it with a laugh in his eyes, or had there been a harsh undertone of truth to it, Morse couldn’t recall. It was the first time in over two weeks anyone had even mentioned Thursday, and all he had to go on was some smug officer’s attempt to rile him. 

That’s what it had to be. Because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about. And still, as Morse threw himself onto his cot bed, it was _all_ he could think about. It was all her ever thought about now, if it wasn’t Thursday it was Joan, or Monica, or Bright and Strange and Jakes and anyone out there, anyone who was out there, ignoring him, letting him rot in here. 

He bolted upright, heart hammering in his chest. It would do him no good to spiral now, not with evening falling. His roommate had already made it clear he didn’t like Morse, or noise, and he wasn’t averse to shutting Morse up with his fists. He’d learnt that the first night when he’d mumbled in his sleep and woken to a slap across the jaw. He had tried to distract himself, to go to sleep thinking of anything other than the faces of the people he’d lost. But there was little else to think about. 

Even now, having just admonished himself for getting worked up, he found his thoughts drifting back to them again. With no crosswords to think about or cases to solve, they filled his head. 

Like Monica, what would she think of him now? As far as she knew her neighbour, her sometimes date, her maybe-something-more- had vanished over night. The next morning, his face splashed across papers proclaiming him a murderer. Any hope they had of anything now, was gone surely. Even if he got out, even if they proved him innocent, even if he hadn’t lost everything by the time he got out, even _if_ all of that, they still couldn’t go back to how they were. Names and associations stuck, stories followed and she would probably never look at him the same way again. 

He closed his eyes, for a moment, and let himself remember the way she had looked at him, the first night she had come round with cotton pads and antiseptics. Her small smile, the way her lip would catch between her teeth when she was thinking. The way her hands moved, quick and efficient in everything they did. The way the sunlight would wrap itself around her when she lay in bed, bare shoulders peeking from the blankets. Her laugh, her voice, the way she would look at him like she could see right through him, to his core. She was amazing. And she would never trust him again. 

There had to be something wrong with him, for him to mess up so royally whenever things got serious. Before, with _her,_ and the brief time he had thought there might have been something there with Miss Thursday, and now, again, with Monica. He was bad luck. He took everything lovely and he ruined it. 

It wasn’t just the girls though, Morse thought as his eyes wandered the ceiling. It was everything, everyone. It was the newly found friendships he had been forging, all undone in an instant. Strange, who he realised, he had become fond of would have to choose now; between Morse and the men who pulled the strings that made his every move. Of course, Morse couldn’t ask him to pick him over his career, but he knew he wouldn’t have to. Strange was a kind soul underneath the bravado and funny handshakes. He would pick Morse, and he’d find his hands burnt for it. 

A sudden, awful thought crossed Morse’s mind, slithering down his spine with an unsettling chill. If they were willing to put him here, to watch him die at the hands of men he’s put in here, then what else were they willing to do. Stage a little mishap? How hard would it be for Strange to just be somewhere, wrong place, wrong time, then suddenly a problem no more. 

And if they would do that to Strange, what would make them stop there. Jakes had a problem running his mouth; if he said the wrong thing, asked too many questions, looked a little too hard at something then who could say what accident might befall him. Morse had seen the fear in his eyes, the night he was arrested. The tears swimming in his eyes as he choked out the answers to Morse’s quiet questions. 

If Morse had worked out who he was, his past, how long as it until one of Deare’s lot dug up the same truths? Before they dangled them in front of Jakes, a threat to the new life he had built for himself, the new life he fought to protect with his life. Morse’s heart twisted painfully. He knew what it was like to bury the past, and how much he would sacrifice to keep it that way. He had no doubt that given the choice, Peter Jakes would do the same. 

Rolling over in his bed, Morse tried to push Jakes from his mind. He tried to tell himself that Jakes was only a coworker, was nothing special. Maybe if he could convince himself that Jakes and the others were just as crooked as the rest, then he’d sleep better. Rather the whole world against you, than watch as your friends fight a losing battle on your behalf. He couldn’t face the casualties, it was much easier to hate everyone. 

But no matter how many times he told himself that it was impossible to hate Fred Thursday. There was no denying it now, he had done more for Morse than his father ever had, and how had Morse repaid him? Got him shot, got him _killed._ Guilt clawed at Morse’s insides. He had the gall to lie there and mope, while for all he knew, Thursday was lying in the ground somewhere, a bullet in his chest and a widow at his grave. He felt sick to his stomach. He reached out and wrapped a hand around the metal frame of his bed, letting the cold sink into his skin. He gripped so hard his nails bit into his palm, and he let the feeling consume him. Anything to distract him from the noise in his head. 

At some point, Morse must have fallen asleep, because one moment he was staring at a crack in the wall, then next he was standing at his mother’s grave. Only, it couldn’t have been her grave, because she was standing beside him. For one single moment, Morse’s heart soared. He reached out a hand, wanting to grab her, to hold onto her. Even if this was a dream, which he thought it must be because the sky was deep purple and the thunder around them sounded like Jakes’ laughter. 

Before he could even raise a hand though, he turned to look at him, and her eyes were pale and hollow. She didn’t speak, but Morse could hear her words loud enough all the same; _I’m disappointed in you Endeavour._ Then it morphed into his father's voice, into him saying he didn’t like coppers, he never did, and the words they spun around him, rooting him to the spot, pinning him to the ground beside the now empty grave.

Shadows passed around him, vague shapes with faces and voices that he could almost recognise. Footsteps that sound like smart shoes on the cold tiles of a morgue, a perfume that smells just like _her,_ the ghostly face of Strange looking washed out and grey. 

He wants to run, wants to get away because all they’re doing is taunting him, but he can’t move. He can barely breathe. He manages to crane his neck to look for his mother, but in his place he finds Mrs. Thursday. She looks into the space beneath them, and there are tears in her eyes. Fear thuds in Morse’s chest, grabs a hold of his heart and squeezes. 

_"This is all your fault .”_

That’s Joan’s voice, dripping with something dark and venomous. She appears beside her mother, hands wrapped around Win’s shoulders as she cries. Morse shakes his head, he has to tell her he didn’t mean to, he never wanted this to happen. When he tries to cry out, the wind snatches up any sound he makes. 

There’s a groaning sound then, from the ground. He finds himself staring once again at his mother’s gravestone, only the letters on it swim dizzyingly. One minute it’s her name, the next it’s Thursday, Strange, Joan, Jakes, Monica, Morse, DeBryn, Susan. The thunder crashes again, and this time the ground shakes with it. Morse finds himself pushed forward, someone’s hand on his back forcing him to his knees beside the grave. He won’t look, he can’t look; but he doesn’t have to. 

A hand appears, clawing its way to the top. Pale fingers outstretched, bloodied and raw, scrabbling at the dirt. Another, and then arms, as something, some _one_ pulls themselves out of the hole. As the clouds above part, a sliver of moonlight illuminates the face. 

Jakes, looking far too much like that night at the pub, the night Morse went to Blenheim. There’s broken glass in his hands, embedded in his jacket. It shimmers in the moonlight, a thousand tiny shards of light. When he opens his mouth, more glass falls out. His voice is hoarse like he’s been choking on it. 

_“ You let it all happen Morse”_

Then his voice is suddenly a lot closer, it’s in his head. 

_Nobody’s coming for you now_

The cold terror that ripped through Morse was so sharp he felt the ribbons holding him snap. He could scream he found, and he did, until the sound finally woke him.

* * *

The next morning, he found himself thrown against a wall, apparent punishment for his tossing and turning through the night. He nodded weakly as his head reeled, making half hearted promises to be quieter that night. 

They weren’t promises he could keep though, no that night or the next. Every night it seemed he either fell into an empty, dreamless sleep that left him waking up as exhausted as before, or he had the same dream. It would change a little. Sometimes it was his father he saw, sometimes it was DeBryn. Sometimes, it would be Strange crawling out of the grave or it was Joan stumbling into his arms with a knife in her gut. 

The worst though, was the night he knelt over the grave and it was Thursday’s hands reaching from the open coffin. His hands found purchase on dangling roots, strong arms hauling themselves up. From behind him, Morse heard both the Thursday women scream. The face that appeared next, though half rotten and crumbling, was Fred Thursday. He looked every bit a corpse, and there was blood _everywhere._

He hauled himself onto the ground, kneeling opposite Morse. The smell of tobacco mixed with decaying flesh, and Morse fought the urge to bring up his stomach. 

Thursday’s hand came up and he grabbed Morse’s tie. It turned to ash between his fingers and then those same fingers found Morse’s throat. The sky, the grave, Mrs Thursday and Joan it all fades away. There was only Fred and Morse and the growing realisation that this is all his fault. 

_You let me die Morse_ Thursday’s corpse said with a grin. 

_Now who’s going to come save you?_

**Author's Note:**

> ohhh nooo... if only someone was to maybe help poor Morse... ;) 
> 
> but aHHH i hope yall enjoyed! lemme know what u thiiiiink! <3


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